Broken Pieces
by xKainexx
Summary: Arthur's moved to England. Matthew and his mother have left. Meanwhile, Alfred is left alone with his abusive, alcoholic father, and finds himself falling down into a bottomless pit of depression. He is broken, and no one's there to pick up the pieces... or is there? AU. Rated T for physical/verbal abuse, self-deprecation, and coarse language. Couple: America/England *On hiatus*
1. Hello, Living Hell

**This story is a long-overdue request from Ireland-EliyOHara. The request came in August of last year... and oh my holy dear, it has almost been a year since then. I feel absolutely dreadful about this. Really and truly. x.x**

**But I digress. This will be my first multi-chapter fic (restitution for the long wait), and I will say this here and now... I am giving no promises on how often I update this! I will probably be fairly inconsistent, as I am mostly winging it (ending it mostly set, middle is... well... y'know). So if you do not like unreliable updating, you may want to turn around now!**

**The title may be changed depending on if I come up with a better one.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**Couple(s): America/England**

**Warnings: physical/verbal abuse, self-loathing/self-deprecation, coarse language, heavy subjects**

**AU. Anyways, I'll shut up now (should've done that earlier...), so enjoy!**

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_I never thought this would happen. I never wanted to be like this._

Alfred greeted loudly into the phone at his ear, "Hey, Artie!"

"How many times have I told you that my name's Arthur..." he sighed, the noise crackling through the phone, "Whatever. How are you?"

"Absolutely fine, as always! A hero can't be anything but!" He laughed, unlocking the chain around his bike and getting on it. He pushed off and steered with one hand on the bars, the other holding his cell. "Havin' fun in London?"

"I suppose. It's nice to see my family again."

It seemed as though Arthur was attempting to be optimistic about it, but Alfred could hear the underlying sullen tone of his voice. It made him briefly think back to the end of their junior year, when Arthur had told him that he was moving back to England. It was something that had really shocked the blond, but seeing as there was nothing he could do about it, he'd parted with his English friend, saying that they could still talk by phone and through video chat. Arthur had agreed, but it was obvious that he hadn't been looking forward to it.

He attempted to lift his friend's spirits, "Hey, if your brothers are buggin' ya, just let me know and I'll fly over to whoop their butts!"

A laugh came through the phone, and Alfred smiled, glad that his attempt had worked. When Arthur spoke again, his voice was a bit lighter, having gone on to a different subject.

"How are your grades? You're not failing any again, are you?"

Alfred grimaced as the topic of grades came up. Academics were something he'd always struggled in, but since he was in elementary school, he'd always had Arthur there to help him through. This year, without him, it was tough... in more ways than one. He gave a nervous chuckle as he meekly replied, "Eeeh... I'm not failing, per say— Just not doin' so hot."

He could almost see Arthur slapping his palm to his forehead at his response. "Just because I'm not there doesn't mean you can slack off!" he berated sternly.

A whine left his throat, "But Artie~!"

"No buts! You want to get into a good university, don't you?"

At the subject of university, Alfred quieted for a second, then laughed, "I'll find some way through. Don't worry!"

"Alfred..." Arthur let out a rather audible sigh, "Well, have a good evening. I have a test tomorrow, so I'm going to sleep early."

"You're such an old man, Artie!" He laughed, and continued before Arthur could respond back, "'Night!"

By the time their conversation had ended and Alfred had pocketed his phone, he was slowing down his bike at the driveway to his house and he hopped off of it, walking it through the side gate and locking it up before going inside the house.

What greeted him inside was anything but pleasant. His father lay sprawled out on the couch in the living room, over half a dozen beer bottles scattered about the space in front of the T.V. He snored loudly, his face red and flushed from the alcohol he'd ingested and his gut bloated. Alfred wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stench, but did nothing except creep up the stairs to his bedroom, where he opened the door as quietly as he could and, once in, shut it just as softly. He threw his backpack to the side and locked the door, leaning against it and sliding down to the floor, one leg to his chest and the other spread out. At least today his father had passed out from the all the beer... it was better than having him awake.

He took his phone out from his pocket and looked solemnly down at the picture he had of him and Arthur on it. It was almost unbearable how much he wanted to talk to Arthur, even though they had just spoken. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. Hearing Arthur's voice was his only salvation in the hell that was his life. His grip on the phone tightened; the blond wished he could spill everything to his English friend, everything that had happened over the past summer since he'd left and everything that he felt. But he couldn't; he wouldn't allow himself to burden his friend with that. No. He had to keep it inside.

Setting down his phone on the carpet beside him, Alfred drew both knees close to his chest and hugged them, shutting his eyes tightly as if it would keep out the rest of the world. Had life always been this hard? Trying to concentrate in school, keeping up as captain of the football team, taking care of the house... the effort he had to put into all of it was exhausting. Sometimes he just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

How could he call himself a hero? He was no hero at all. All he did was put on a cheerful façade and play the part of the oblivious, happy fool. Always smiling, always laughing, always making jokes. It was a lie. Everything about him was a lie. He was just a pathetic, useless excuse for a person. Even his mother had left him. She'd left and taken Mattie with her, making him stay here with the man who was only related to him by blood; he wasn't his father, and he wasn't his family. He was a damned drunkard that wasted away his life on a couch and in turn made Alfred's life a living hell.

Alfred clenched his teeth and dug his nails into the skin of his arms, creating angry red crescents against his skin, a dull pain radiating from the points they were digging at. A ragged breath escaped through his teeth, and he rested his forehead on his knees. When had he become so weak? In just the short span of a few months he'd been molded into a docile, whimpering figure, a stranger.

Every time he looked into the mirror, the only thing he saw was a familiar stranger. He had the same sandy blond hair with the peculiar gravity-defying cowlick, the same baby blue eyes, the same glasses, the same bomber jacket... but it wasn't him. It couldn't be. He was not the meek, quivering creature that always looked back at him in the bathroom mirror. He was stronger than this... or was he?

Someone strong would have been able to protect his mom and brother from that abusive man. He would have called the police and gotten him locked up for domestic violence. But no; instead, he stayed back while that man beat his mother, hurled insult after insult after her, and left her a broken mess on the floor. Alfred hadn't even been able to console her afterwards. Matthew was always the one that had done that. Him? He just stayed back and watched. What a wretched son and brother he'd turned out to be.

_They_ were the strong ones. Matthew and his mom had left, not even bothering with getting a divorce. One morning, they'd just disappeared without a word, and Alfred hadn't heard from either of them since. It was to be expected, of course. Why would they want to contact someone as worthless as him, someone who let them be abused like that?

When he opened his eyes and let go of the tension in his jaw, another ragged breath escaped his lips, and he could feel his eyes stinging as tears formed. Mucus drained down into his throat as he sniffled. A silent sob was ripped from his throat as his emotions flooded over, the delicate wall keeping them from escaping being quickly overtaken. Alfred's whole body quaked, shaking as he let out choked sobs. Hot tears streamed down his flushed cheeks, leaving a burning trail behind them.

Mucus dribbled from his nose, and he scrunched his brows up and shut his eyes again, feeling himself being seized into a full-on crying session. Tears gathered at his jawline, tickling his skin until they dropped down to his jeans, dampening the material. Pain blossomed in his forehead with the force of his sobs, his pain. It took all of his self-control to keep quiet. It would be the worst humiliation to have that man wake up and find Alfred curled up in a crying mess.

He didn't know how long he'd stayed there, in that same position, tears streaking his cheeks and his shoulders shuddering. When the tears stopped flowing, having cried out all he could, he just let out dry sobs, his throat now sore. He gasped in air and let it out in a trembling breath, attempting to regain control of his body. Slowly, the sobs subsided, and all he was left with were the drying trails of tears on his cheeks and the pain in his forehead. His eyes felt dry, heavy. When he licked his lips, he noticed the odd taste of mucus on his lips, and quickly recoiled his tongue back into his mouth.

Having cried out all he could, emotions flooded back in, all having numerous names to them, all weighing down on him heavily. Regret, shame, self-loathing, depression, anger, fear, disgust, irritation, resentment, humiliation… He felt empty, exhausted, helpless, _broken_.

Every little bit of him was broken. His mind, his body, everything was shattered. He'd been too delicate to stay whole for long, like one of those fragile china dolls. One little scuff and they were cracked. And then the cracks spread, reaching out their thin tendrils and engulfing it until it inevitably collapsed. Only the façade was still intact, because it wasn't a part of him. It was a mask to hide the pieces behind. Sometimes Alfred felt that it hid his destroyed self _too_ well. What if someone could see through it, see through his smile? Would they see his downward, bottomless descent? Maybe then he'd be able to get help, escape this torment, regain his life back, and glue the pieces back together.

Of course, nothing ever worked out so conveniently. No, he'd perfected his persona too well for it to be broken through. He'd left no cracks in it, no way for others to find a weak point and peer through the hole to see the pathetic figure behind it. Forever, the mask would stay on… but how long was forever? Was it until death? Would it persist through death, erasing any and all vestiges of his actual self to rot behind the mask? So many thoughts pounded against the confines of his head, only increasing the pain that'd risen from his crying.

With his head throbbing, Alfred used what little energy he had to pick himself up off the floor and drag his feet to the adjoining bathroom. He closed the door softly and walked over to the sink counter, resting his hands against it as he brought his head up. When he looked in the mirror, he saw that wrecked person, that familiar stranger that always taunted him. He sneered at his reflection and turned on the water, bending down using both hands to splash water up onto his face, removing the trails of tears marring his skin. He scrubbed at it for a few minutes, making sure to get rid of any and all evidence of his crying session.

Turning off the water, he looked up again to inspect his face, making sure that he looked normal. Aside from the clogged nose and red-tinged eyes, Alfred looked fine. Amazing how easily tears could be washed away... he sighed and left the bathroom, flopping back on his bed. He knew he probably should have been doing his homework, or studying for the math test he had tomorrow, but the blond couldn't work up the energy to go to his desk. Instead, he opted for just lying down, staring up at the white ceiling and thinking of nothing and everything.

Most of all, thoughts of Arthur kept invading his mind, no matter how he tried to push them away. Thinking of his friend gave Alfred nothing but pain. It was painful, knowing that he couldn't see him, seeing how far he'd fallen without the Englishman as a crutch, as a means of support. Arthur had been his pillar to keep him up and stable. It was sad for someone who used to call himself a hero. A hero didn't lean on others. A hero was the one that supported others...

Above everything else, though, what really made thinking of Arthur so severe, so _crushing_, was looking back on the happy days they'd shared. To think of such times, and then to be forced back into reality, was more painful than any beating. He could see those moments so clearly in his mind, and yet when he reached for them, they faded out of his grasp. It hurt. It was a nightmare he couldn't escape from. Only when Arthur called did Alfred find a fragment of happiness; even then, it was still only a sliver.

He exhaled softly and closed his eyes, trying to lull himself to sleep by counting his breaths.

_One._

_Two…_

Continuing to count, for once all other thoughts were shut out from his mind. He began drifting off, but when he was on the verge of blissful sleep, a loud bang on his door jolted him awake.

"Alfred, get your ass out here!" bellowed an angry voice from beyond the door.

Stifling a groan, he slid from his bed and stood up, heading to unlock the door despite his better judgment. A split second after he'd flipped the lock on the doorknob, the door swung open and slammed against the wall adjacent to it, Alfred narrowly avoiding getting hit with it.

Before him stood the man he refused to call father, beer bottle in hand, eyes bloodshot, face red both from the booze and anger. Before he could lock eyes with the man, Alfred's head whipped to the side as the man's hand came down against his cheek, making it sting with the force behind it. He said nothing, only looked at the man out of the corner of his eye. He would have rather been hit with the door.

Alfred wondered what he was mad about this time. Or did he even need a reason anymore? Sometimes it was "your fault that they left," or "because you're a pathetic excuse for a son," or "you're using up all of my money," and the best one, "you screwed up my life by being born." All of those were reasons used multiple times as excuses for the beatings, the pain, but Alfred supposed that it no longer mattered why. And even if he did have a reason, it didn't matter, because although he knew that none of it was his fault, the constant abuse, both verbal and physical, certainly had a way of convincing him it was.

He was taken from his thoughts when the man began yelling again, his speech slurred by intoxication, "You damned worthless son! The school called today to tell that you're failing _three_ classes! I don't put up with you for you to fail that shit! If you're not going to learn, then drop out and get a job to pay me back all my money!"

_Now there's an idea_, he thought snidely. A response was at his lips when another blow came down at the side of his head in the form of an empty beer bottle. There was a dull _thud!_ as it made contact with his head, and pain surged through his head, sending a wave of blackness before his eyes for a moment before he gained back his sight. He stumbled to the side, giving the man a dull look, taunting him as if to say: _Is that all you got?_

In hindsight, it wasn't the best idea to taunt him. Like a switch was flipped, blow after blow rained down on him, bringing him down to his knees, hands instinctively covering his head. Both fist and bottle hit various places along his body; his arms, his back, his neck, his stomach. One such blow to the stomach knocked the wind out of him and forced his hands from his head to keep himself from collapsing. A large cracking sound against his skull made his vision swim again, and he felt sick through the pain.

The man started yelling again, though Alfred didn't pay attention to his words. It was hard to comprehend anything but the pain. It almost surprised him that he hadn't cried out yet, but he knew that it was the only way he kept his tattered pride intact. But he spoke too soon.

There was a shattering sound as the bottle presumably broke, maybe against the wall, he didn't know. Coming shortly after the shattering, pain shot up through Alfred's back like long, vicious nails being hammered up his spine. The broken bottle ripped his T-shirt, its jagged ends scraped and tore through his skin. A scream was ripped from his throat, hot blood seeping up through the lacerated skin and running in streaks down his back. His body broke out in a cold sweat, his heart thrashing profusely against his ribcage as the man continued to sink the bottle's ragged teeth into the skin of his back and arms, some strokes short and quick, some slow and agonizing.

Alfred had no way of telling when, but with blood streaking his bruised and battered body, head pulsing in an excruciating rhythm, and heart heavy, he passed out.

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**...I feel terrible. I really do. But when I hear the word "depressed", it's a lot heavier than just plain old "sad". Thus, this was created (along with many other stories which were temporarily scrapped). ****There's a lot of big paragraphs, isn't there?**

**So, do you want to shower me with rainbows and (soft) candies, or do you want to pelt me with bricks? Both, maybe? Either way, do tell! Constructive criticism and reviews are highly appreciated! No seriously... 'cause if you do like this, they'll urge me to get to writing more of it.**

**Thank you very much for reading! *gives cookie***


	2. A Day in the Life

**Thank you readers for all the wonderful reviews, favorites, and follows! They're all appreciated and I'm glad so many people have enjoyed this so far! Now, I must give my sincerest apologies for making y'all wait for three weeks for an update. I have no excuses; I am a terrible procrastinator and always get caught up in the details. I almost scrapped the whole chapter, but I wanted to upload before July came.**

**So I must say, thank you for your waiting!**

**But anyways...**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**Couple(s): America/England**

**Warnings: physical/verbal abuse, self-loathing/self-deprecation, coarse language, heavy subjects**

**AU. Enjoy!**

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Moonlight filtered through the curtains, giving illumination to the otherwise dark room. A groan sounded in the silence as Alfred's eyes cracked open. As he floated into consciousness, pain jolted through his body, welling up to unbearable magnitudes, and he groaned again, limbs feeling too heavy to move and his body feeling overall, like he'd been run over with a bulldozer.

Slowly, to not jostle his head and deepen the pain, he lifted it up from the carpet and looked to where his alarm clock was on the bedside table. The red numbers flashed _2:13 _at him. He sighed and lifted his body up with caution, muscles rigid as he tried to keep from aggravating the multiple wounds along his figure. By the time he got to a sitting position, he was already breathing heavily from the exertion, head pounding again and sharpening the pain in the back of his skull. He felt sick.

Sitting there, Alfred gazed up at the window, looking blankly at the picturesque nighttime scenery beyond the glass… it almost looked like a different world. A peaceful world, without pain, the moon's rays giving comfort to the earth. He knew better, though. He knew that beyond the glass, the world was just as harsh, just as ready to consume the weak as he had been consumed. His thoughts traced back to earlier that night with a dull apathy covering up the quivering part of him that shook with worry and fear. What the hell happened? Normally, the injuries weren't this severe. Had the man finally snapped? If he had, then it probably wouldn't be too long until Alfred found himself in a hospital.

The image was grotesquely clear in his mind. His body, mangled with cuts and bruises, distorted under the gashes and the blood, eyes too black and swollen to see the blue of his irises, his vision obscured… his arms oozing blood out on to a gurney, tourniquets slowing the blood circulation until they no longer bled, but arms still painted with red. Legs broken, breath hitching with each faint intake of air he took, fading in and out of conscious… men and women wearing masks and gloves tending to him, rushing to get him to a room, speaking to him, trying to coax out a response, yet receiving none, for there was none to give. On a hospital bed, the EKG beeping in time with his slow pulse, finally stopping, and then nurses and doctors rushing in, trying to revive him, futilely trying to save him, even when Alfred had already given up…

A shiver passed down his spine, taking him away from the scene. Alfred snorted softly, his dry, crusty eyes watering again. Is that what would become of him? Dying in a hospital without ever seeing Mattie and his mom again, without seeing Arthur? The thought made him free his resistance of the tears forming, and they slowly ran down his cheeks, over the bruises and stinging the cuts at his mouth. He let out a trembling breath, swiping away the tears with one hand and gasping at the pain that erupted from the movement. His mind refocused on his injuries, eyes glancing down at his battered figure. Putting more concentration into it than he thought possible at this moment, Alfred examined his injuries with the moonlight to guide him.

Luckily, as he gave a slow inspection of his body, he found no breaks, simply mass bruises forming and a lot of gashes; he couldn't tell much beyond that without the help of some good light. A sigh escaped his lips and he clicked his tongue. "Shit…" he muttered.

With more strength than he knew he had, Alfred hefted himself up into a standing position, though nearly fell back down from the wave of dizziness that overtook him. The pain engulfing his body was overwhelming, stabbing into every nerve and shutting down his ability to move. He waited for it to pass, then crossed the short distance to the bathroom, a limp slowing him down, closing the door behind him and flicking the lights on.

Seeing his face in the mirror made him cringe away from his reflection, the action only serving to flare up the pain. A large red mark was vibrant against his cheek from where the initial slap had been, and a punch had busted his lip and caused it to swell to a blood-red color. Blood was crusted in his hair, giving a red tinge to his bangs, and slight bruising had also formed around his left eye.

With his face checked out, he began to lift his shirt up to inspect his back and abdomen. His breath hitched as the fabric skimmed across the broken skin of his back, and he paused in his actions to get the pain under control before removing it completely.

Alfred turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder to give his verdict to the injuries. His eyes widened when he saw the damage. Long ribbons of red cut through the tanned skin of his back; thick, deep lacerations that still had yet to scab over, blood slick in the open wounds. He reached a hand back and tentatively touched one of the cuts with one finger, then instantly retracted his hand and hissed from the pain that radiated from the simple touch. After a few moments, the pain evened out along his back and he was able to breathe again.

Turning back around, he looked at his abdomen. There was no bruising, despite the abuse his stomach had suffered. He knew that it had been injured, since it throbbed when he moved and touched it… muscle bruising, maybe? Alfred sighed. A quick inspection of his legs revealed one particular large bruise forming on his calf, and with it were several shallow cuts that had already scabbed over. His jeans had some blood staining them… nothing a little cleaner couldn't get out, he hoped. If he kept ruining clothes like this, he'd have to find some way to buy a whole new wardrobe. Damn it.

Alfred fished out the large box of first aid equipment from below his sink, tucked back behind random assortments of bottles and cleaners. He set it on the counter and rummaged through it until he found the bottle of rubbing alcohol and a large roll of gauze and linen bandages. He got a rag out and soaked it in the alcohol before gently pressing it to the scrapes along his arms that had been made by the bottle. Clenching his teeth, he choked down the pained sounds threatening to come out. _Damn_, it stung! Deep, heavy breaths came out of his nose as he made sure to not let out a sound; it'd be just his luck if he woke up that man while he was tending to his wounds.

When he felt that the alcohol had done work enough to keep out infections, he finished up tending to his arms by using the hydrogen peroxide and then bandaged them up. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about his back, though. That man had never inflicted so much damage before, and in a place that was hard to work with. Sighing softly, Alfred bent down until his back was almost at a ninety degree angle, and then, using the mirror as a guide, poured the alcohol on to the wound.

If it had made the scrapes on his arms hurt, then having it poured on his back was beyond pain. The substance settled into the dips and grooves of the long gashes, eating away at any potential infections, creating an agony almost on par to having been inflicted with the injuries in the first place. He bit his lip until it was bleeding, and then some, to keep back a loud string of curses. A moan of pain still escaped past his sealed lips and his eyes watered, even with his efforts.

It took Alfred a good while after using the alcohol to calm down enough to pour the hydrogen peroxide on his back, and when he did, it was with a slight trembling in his hand. The liquid bubbled and bubbled, and he found relief in the absence of the intense stinging that the alcohol had brought. When the peroxide's bubbling subsided, the blond patted his back down with another towel, making sure to catch the liquid that strayed and threatened to dip down below his jeans. When he retracted the towel, it came back with some spots of red against it.

He sighed again. What was he supposed to do about bandaging it? It sounded like too much work for him alone, and he was too damn tired to care much about it.

"Whatever..." Alfred grumbled quietly. _I'll just leave it._

With that thought, he stood up straight again, taking only a moment to dab a bit of alcohol on his busted lip and scrub away at the blood on his scalp. He soaked the towels and rag in hydrogen peroxide and left them in the bowl before putting the equipment back under the sink. Alfred left the bathroom and wondered about getting some ice packs from the kitchen, but quickly discarded the thought. He didn't know where that man was in the house; he could have been in his room, in the hall, or on the couch. He didn't know, and he didn't want to find out.

Resigning himself to a night of pain, Alfred collapsed on to his bed, shirtless and exhausted. He checked the clock and saw that it had just passed three a.m., and closed his eyes. Just when he was about to succumb to blissful darkness, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and play the tune of "Airplanes" by The Ready Set.

_Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars~_

Alfred perked up curiously at the ringtone. It was the one he had set for Arthur. But why would the Englishman call him now? Wasn't he in school already? Nevertheless, he lifted his body up just enough to get the device out of his pocket, then collapsed again and answered the phone.

"Arthur?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

"Hello…" came the delightfully soothing voice of his friend.

"Aren't ya supposed to be in school now, Artie?"

"Yes," he affirmed, and continued in a sheepish voice, "I know that it's too early to be calling you now, but my gut was just telling me that I had to. Are you all right?"

Arthur's words stunned him into silence. He called just because he had a feeling. And here Alfred was, lying down with bruises and gashes and exhaustion lacing his body. He smiled and laughed at how his friend had such good timing. Out of everyone he knew and everything he had, Arthur was the only one who could give him such happiness simply from a phone call.

"I am now," he grinned into the phone, forgetting the pain in his body and the abuse and his hellish life.

Silence. And then, "That's good to hear. I suppose you want to get back to sleep?"

"No, no, no!" Alfred rushed to disagree. "As long as you're fine with it, we can keep talking."

"Okay." Arthur hummed into the phone, then began talking again, "How's football going?"

"Great! We've won all the games so far."

He was lying through his teeth. They were on a winning streak, but for Alfred, it was a disaster. He was on the verge of getting kicked off the team because of his grades; when he _was_ able to play, his performance level was ridiculously low because he couldn't keep up with the others, his injuries sapping him of the energy needed for playing.

But Arthur didn't question it, and they continued talking, about everything and nothing, but never once did the topic of Alfred's household come up. He'd never told Arthur about the troubles that man had created, about the rift in the family, and especially about the abuse. It wasn't like Arthur hadn't been to his house before, anyhow. Since childhood, they'd gone back and forth between each other's houses. Back then, that man hadn't been as bad, but as the marriage progressed, more and more fights kept emerging, and Alfred had begun making excuses to keep Arthur away from his house. It'd worked, though with a bit of suspicion on Arthur's part, and the American had been able to keep the abuse a secret up until now.

He did tell Arthur when Matthew and his mom left, however. The Englishman was friends with both brothers, so it wasn't like he'd be able to keep it a secret. Alfred didn't know if they spoke anymore, and if they did, it was more than Alfred could say for himself. To what extent he knew, Alfred also wasn't sure. Matthew might have told him more than Alfred had, which was a vague, generalized reason that their parents just weren't compatible. If he did, Arthur never brought it up, and that was good enough for him.

Over an hour passed before Arthur regrettably had to hang up.

"I'll call you later, okay?" he reassured in an apologetic voice, "Get some sleep now."

"All right, I will." He spoke softly into the phone, a smile on his face.

"Bye."

"Bye—" Alfred said, but just as the word left his mouth, he blurted out, "Wait! Uh, Arthur…"

"Yes?" His friend asked in concern.

He pursed his lips lightly before saying, "Thanks for calling."

A small chuckle came from the other end of the line, "Anytime."

And then they clicked off, and Alfred reluctantly set his phone aside and curled up on his side, hugging one of his pillows to his chest. When he closed his eyes, he found that he was able to get to sleep much easier, even with the pain.

* * *

It was past five when Alfred woke up in the morning, his alarm clock beeping its obnoxious yet effective tune and only one hour of sleep to fuel him through the day. Without even having to look in a mirror, he knew there were dark circles under his eyes. It'd be a miracle if he could stay awake through first period.

He shivered from the cool air against his exposed back and slammed a hand down on the abominable device, silencing its shrieking. Alfred's entire body throbbed with a pulsing ache, the abuse it had endured last night causing it to feel heavy and dead. Ignoring the protests of his body, he got up and sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his mussed hair.

Moonlight still streamed through the window, and he was glad that he'd set his alarm to go off before dawn. Any later, and Alfred would have been afraid of that man waking up, even though he knew fully well that the chance of him waking up in the earlier hours of the morning were slim to none, courtesy of his alcoholic nature.

Letting out a soft breath, Alfred slowly stood and crossed the darkened room to his dresser situated by the bathroom door, getting out his wardrobe for the day, specifically picking out a long-sleeved shirt to hide his arms. He let the slept-in clothes fall to the floor and got dressed, tugging on the shirt last. He hissed in pain the material rubbed against the gashes on his back, and decided against wearing his bomber jacket, a memento from his grandfather before he died. Instead, he put it in his pack along with the rest of his books to keep it safe if the man decided that he wanted to destroy half of his belongs. Again.

Ten minutes later, Alfred's hair and teeth were brushed, his backpack was slung over his shoulder, and he headed for the door before remembering the painkillers the man always kept in the kitchen. In all honesty, he hated taking pills, but there was no way he was going to get through the day, much less a football game, with the pain he was in. He swallowed the pills dry and trudged out the door, moon slowly disappearing below the urban horizon. An hour and a half until dawn, probably. Sighing, he resigned himself to the long day ahead and got his bike.

With one foot, he kicked off, but abruptly stopped when he saw his neighbor coming out their door as well. The lady had an early job, or so he assumed, because her car was usually gone by this time. A few years back, they'd had pleasant conversations; sometimes he'd even gone over to her house for coffee, just to listen to all the tales she had. However, when that man started abusing Alfred's mother, when it became more than just disagreements, she'd distanced herself. They didn't speak anymore.

She looked up as she got out her car keys, and her eyes met his. Alfred tried a weak smile, but she avoided it and hurried unlocked the car and got in. Within a few seconds, she was out of the driveway and on to the street. A heavy frown pulled at his lips as he watched the car disappear around a turn. She ignored it too, the beatings. Everyone did. It was like his mother's screams had been silent, like _his_ screams were now silent as well. They all knew, and they all did nothing. But he didn't do anything either, so he couldn't blame them. No. The only one he had to blame was himself.

Cutting off that train of thought, Alfred shook his head and rode off.

When he arrived at school, he stopped his bike beneath a lamppost and sat down, getting out his iPhone from the pocket of his jeans and putting his earbuds in. He'd been getting up this early ever since the start of the school year, just to get out of the house for a while more… to escape all the suffocating emotions and memories it held.

The painkillers were starting to kick in, and he was grateful as the aching subsided from his body, if only a little. He spent the next hour and a half letting the music blasting from his earbuds drown out the world. If only he could escape from the world all the time, simply allow the music to lull him into fantasy, into dreams of a better place. What he would give to escape… a lot. Too much.

Time slowly passed, and soon the sun was rising, the light from the lamppost flickering off. Hues of pink and orange painted the sky with the coming of dawn, and somehow, Alfred felt that the scene was too perfect, too beautiful, to be real. How could something be so beautiful when the world was hell?

"Ohayō, Alfed-san."

Blinking, the blond pulled out his earbuds and looked up to find his Japanese friend, Kiku, standing over him. He'd met Kiku in his freshman year, and they'd bonded over their love of video games. He was rather quiet and incredibly perceptive, but they didn't talk much these days. Alfred hadn't made an effort to keep up social relations since last year, though his friends still put in the effort to talk to him. He didn't know why. It was a waste of time and energy to try to coax him out of the box he'd put himself in. He suspected that they just assumed that his distance was because Arthur had moved way. Little did they know…

Alfred pocketed his phone and stood up, stretching and holding back a flinch at the pain that came with the motion; over the counter painkillers were never enough to get rid it completely. He flashed a grin at his friend. "Hey Kiku! How are ya, dude?"

Kiku was about to smile back when his lips turned down in frown. He stared up at Alfred, eyes unreadable, and the look made him squirm. Then, he abruptly asked, "What happened to your face?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, cackling as if he hadn't a care in the world. "Just some kids from school tryin' to bring up their rep by beatin' up the quarterback, y'know?" He began walking his bike up to the bike rack, Kiku following behind him. "'Course, they got more banged up than me!"

"I see…" was Kiku's short response.

The first time he'd come to school with bruises on his face, he'd miraculously been able to scramble out a believable story about some people picking fights with him. And his friends hadn't questioned it. Now, whenever he got injuries he couldn't cover up, that was his story. Only sucky thing about it was that he got long lectures from his coach about fighting and he couldn't talk to Arthur through webcam.

"You comin' to the game tonight?"

The Japanese man pursed his lips in thought, then responded with careful words, "If I have nothing going on with my family, I will."

"Awesome!" Alfred began rambling on about various subjects as they walked to their first classroom and settled down in their seats.

Time passed with him talking and Kiku occasionally responding, and then more students filed in as the bell rang. Only one other friend was in this class: Francis, the Frenchman who used to love bugging the crap out of Arthur and now did so with Alfred. Their relationship nowadays had an underlying current of tension, however, because Francis had been best friends with Matthew and ever since they left… there was a tangible rift in their friendship, mainly because it seemed that Mattie hadn't kept in contact with the Frenchman after leaving.

Francis sauntered up to them, smiling, but it quickly vanished when he saw the bruise on Alfred's face. "Mon ami, what happened to you?"

Shrugging, he gave him the same explanation that he gave Kiku, and when Francis opened his mouth to reply, their conversation was cut off as the teacher came in. Alfred grimaced when they began passing back the tests, and reluctantly tried to figure out some of the problems. However, the numbers and problems looked like gibberish to him. What was this class again, pre-calculus? He must've been insane not to drop it at the beginning of the year; it wasn't like he needed it.

He spent the rest of the class staring blankly at the page, sometimes attempting a problem, and then stopping halfway. When the bell rang, he turned in the test three-quarters empty and began the slow trek through the rest of the day.

Lunch finally came around after English class with yet another test, along with more questions about his face, and Alfred found himself sitting alone at one of the lunch tables at the cafeteria, earbuds in again. He didn't eat lunch anymore; his lack of appetite wouldn't let him down a lot of food. Besides, he had no lunch money and there was little food around the house to make one. Most of the time he got some junk food from McDonald's or Burger King –the two places which used to be his sanctuary— or scraped up what little was around the house. He knew it was severely unhealthy, but he didn't have the money or the appetite.

Francis sat down next to him, a tray of various cafeteria foods before him. "So Alfred, have you talked to Arthur lately?"

"Yep." He replied with a grin, "Talked to 'im just yesterday."

"I see…" Francis went silent for a few moments, munching on his salad. "Are you okay?"

"With what?" Alfred cocked his head to the side, furrowing his brows in pseudo-confusion.

"With Arthur being gone. You haven't been yourself since he left." It seemed this was one of the Frenchman's more serious moments.

He shrugged, grin still plastered on his face. "It's not like we'll never see each other again. I'm fine."

Francis gave him a doubtful look, but didn't question it further and they bantered about random subjects, Alfred intentionally veering away from anything about Mattie or Arthur. Kiku soon joined them, followed by Feliciano, an Italian one year younger than him, and Ludwig, a bulky German currently going out with the Italian who was also a junior. Amidst the conversing, Alfred let his replies fade out until he was silent, drowning out the voices of his friends with music.

* * *

"Jones, you can't be slacking off in practice! You gotta get your butt in gear for the game tonight!"

"Yes, coach!" Alfred called, panting as he took a swig from his water.

The field was blurring before his eyes and he couldn't focus on any one player; it felt as if he might pass out at any minute from the pain. The painkillers had worn off earlier during practice. It was stupid of him to try to practice without letting the injuries heal, but if he missed another practice, he'd be in loads of trouble. Alfred took a moment to catch his breath and ran back to join the rest of the team and they continued the drills and training for another hour or so until the coach let them go to rest before the big game.

Finally, it was over. He took off his helmet and grabbed his water, heading to the locker room with the rest of his team. Once inside, he sat down on one of the benches and sighed heavily. Around him was the stench of sweat and the bantering of the other guys as they changed, all of it only serving to intensify the pounding in his head. God, he felt nauseous again.

"Oi, Alfred," one of them called.

He looked up to see three of his teammates standings before him. "Hm?"

All three glared down at him, and the middle one forced him up with a grip on his shoulder pad. "You better not mess this one up for us. We don't care if you're the captain. This game's got a lot riding on it, and we don't want _you_ to fuck things up, got it?"

Acting as if he was oblivious to their hostility, Alfred laughed. "Whatever you say, dude!"

His laughing made the three tense up, but he knew that they wouldn't dare start a fight before a game, and in the locker room, no less. With a growl, the guy let go of him and stormed off, his two lackeys in tow.

Silently, he waited for the rest of the team to leave, none of them bothering with him. Since his poor performance after the first few games, the rest of the team was ostracizing him, but Alfred just couldn't bring himself to care. With a groan, he got up and changed, unable to ignore the pain, but unable to do anything about it. When he was dressed, his coach dragged him into the office for a twenty-minute lecture, going off about fighting and grades and the team and other crap, before letting him go.

_Arthur… _he said in his mind, _I hope you're doing better than I am._ Alfred clenched his fists, letting his footsteps halt, and looked up at the sky, the blue sky covered by white, puffy clouds. If only Arthur were here…

* * *

** Ohayō: Good morning _(Japanese)_**

**Mon ami: My friend _(French)_**

**So... thoughts, opinions? Loved it or hated it, please let me know.**

**Reviews equal love... right?**

**Thank you very much for reading! *sets out plate of cupcakes***


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to all the darlings who have read, reviewed, favorited, and followed! Bit better time this chapter around, shed off one week.** **I don't really know how this chapter is, but since it's not so dreadful that I want to tear out my eyes, I'm putting it up. :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**Couple(s): America/England**

**Warnings: physical/verbal abuse, self-loathing/self-deprecation, coarse and offensive language, heavy subjects**

**AU. Enjoy!**

* * *

Alfred didn't really remember much of the football game. Before it began, he'd taken more painkillers, but it didn't work. The pain was too excruciating to be suppressed by the measly pills he swiped from the kitchen cabinet. His head had been in a mess when he arrived.

The marching band had played the National Anthem, as per usual. Everything after he stepped out on to the field, however, he couldn't recall. Except one thing.

Flashes, sparks of memories from after the game were burned into his mind, intensely and terrifyingly vivid. The echo of his uncertain footsteps and the angry stomping of his teammates as they filed into the locker room. Alfred's own heavy breathing, eyes desperately trying to focus on the ground ahead. Then, he was sitting down on a bench. The vibrant, angry whispers from his teammates pervaded the air, paired together with derisive sneers and heated glares, all bearing down on Alfred. Yet he was too focused on staying conscious to care. No one confronted him or spoke to him, not even the coach.

Soon, he was all alone. And the next thing he knew, Alfred was lying down in bed in the darkness, curtains drawn and leaving only the red glare of the alarm clock. How did he get here…? Alfred couldn't recall coming back home. His thoughts were a jumbled mess of incomprehension; it was an effort to put his attention on any one thing.**  
**

Tired… he was so tired. An exquisite, pulsating cadence reverberated through his bones and into his core. So much pain, so much exhaustion; how was the human body capable of bearing forces of such intensity?

Turning on to his side, Alfred let his eyes fall closed, relaxing the tension in his muscles. He let himself sink into the mattress, let his pillow soak in the tears that streaked down over the bridge of his nose and collected at his cheek in a moist pool. Silence wrapped around him in a comforting blanket. It lulled his mind and body to accept the comforting touch of oblivion, to momentarily forget about the pain.

The tears were forgotten as well as Alfred sunk deeper into the depths of unconsciousness.

* * *

The weekend passed by rather uneventfully. A rare peace settled over Alfred; that man wasn't bothering him, and none of his friends were trying to call him. It was the perfect time to lay low and give his body a rest. The only time he ventured out of his room was in the dead of night or early in the morning to get some food, where once or twice he'd caught that man snoozing away on the couch again. The amount of liquor bottles littering the room had increased, but Alfred couldn't care less about cleaning up.

The highlight of his weekend was when Arthur called again on Sunday. They talked for hours, and Alfred deftly avoided talking over webcam, leaving him with only the comfort of his friend's voice, his laughter and his lecturing. All of it brought him back to the days –only half a year ago, but it felt so much longer— that he could see Arthur and physically touch him, see his smile and the way his cheeks flushed when he was embarrassed…

When they hung up, the sky was splashed with hues of pink and orange streaking the sky. Alfred closed the curtains to hide the beautiful display and sat down on the floor. An aching emptiness consumed him, depriving him of the brief traces of happiness that came with hearing Arthur's voice. His absence created a void, a wide, cavernous fissure that Alfred couldn't hope to fill, wouldn't dare try to fill. Hearing Arthur's voice, it was like the hole was being stitched up, only to be ripped open again when his voice faded from his mind, leaving the gap wider than before, and more painful.

Francis and Kiku continuously tried to help him overcome Arthur's absence, whether it be through distraction or even talking about it, but he knew it was all for naught. He cared too much, too deeply, for the Englishman, to overcome the distance that was now put between them. At times such as these, Alfred wished he could turn his emotions off and just become _numb._ Numb to feeling, to caring.

It'd happened before, just after Arthur had left and when his mother and Mattie had left. In the wake of their abrupt disappearance, Alfred had been in shock, unable to grasp the fact that all the people he'd loved had left him. Only until the beating started did he snap out of it. When he did, a torrent of emotions engulfed him, and he was a mess day and night, crying until his eyes had no more tears to shed, starving himself until out of the sheer need for survival, he ate, not going outside.

But slowly, Alfred became accustomed to being alone and the raging storm of emotions had subsided. It was replaced with a subtler ache, one that trickled in the despair and hopelessness drop by drop, not as rapid but just as lethal of a descent.

And now, there was yet another thing he had to deal with. Whatever happened at the football game to cause such anger in his teammates couldn't have been good. Alfred had most likely cost them the game. Thinking of how they would retaliate didn't make the prospect of tomorrow one he looked forward to. Well, whether he wanted it to or not, tomorrow would come, and he would have to face them. Letting that thought settle in, Alfred stood up and readied himself for bed, sleeping shirtless for the fourth night in a row.

As soon as he hit the pillow, he was out like a light.

Images of his mother and her screams, her pain, tormented him during his sleep. Fitfully tossing on his bed, he was forced to relive moments from the past years, moments where he looked on as that man beat his mother and he cowered behind a door, frozen and tormented by his own cowardice. As he slept, tears soaked into his pillow to mirror the sobs in his memories. Most painful of all was the day he looked into Mattie's room and found it bare.

* * *

Sunrise on the following morning found Alfred sitting under his favored lamppost, observing the sky with dulled interest, clouds rimmed with the soft glow of the morning sun, birds flying overheard and calling out to each other. It was a rather tranquil picture, but Alfred found that he could take no delight in the beauty that dawn brought. Not the crisp, cold air he breathed in, nor the light breeze that rustled the branches of the surrounding trees.

With delight's nonappearance, he was left with a sadness that came through being unable to appreciate it. Last year, he sat in this very spot, waiting for Arthur to arrive, admiring the sunrise and embracing the world around him through his senses. To be unable to feel such a thing now, to be left with only the shadow of memories, it added to the weight bearing down on his shoulders and pushed him even further into that pool of darkness that clung to him like tar and made the surface inaccessible, sinking down and down. He should have already hit the bottom, but it had no bottom; it was an abyss of heavy sludge, too thick to move in, with no escape…

Leaves crunching beneath feet broke the tranquility of the moment and forced his attention outward. Alfred looked up to find his coach approaching him with his thin lips set in a grim line, and his washed, slate-blue eyes looked down at him with weariness. Opposing his stiff muscles and aching injuries, Alfred forced himself to stand and greeted his coach with a quiet "Hello."

"Jones," the coach started, sighing with disappointment clinging to the end of his breath, "Come to my office, now. We have things to discuss."

"All right." He nodded, and after walking his bike up to the rack and locking it up, he followed the coach and they both sat down.

His coach leaned forward in his seat and folded his hands together on the desk. "Jones, ever since freshman year, you've been a vital asset to the program and you've excelled both academically and on the field. I could have not asked for a better quarterback and captain than you. _However_," he put a significant amount of stress on the word, forcing Alfred to look up from his lap and meet the coach's gaze, "this year, your performance level has dropped considerably. You have nearly cost us many games, and now this past game was lost. Not to mention that your grades now don't even allow you to play on the team." There was a pregnant pause, and Alfred kept his face passive, knowing what was to come. "Having said all of that, I must regretfully say that you're off the team."

He gave Alfred a sad look, but Alfred didn't react. "All right, Coach. Thanks for everything." With cold indifference, he left the room and began to wander around campus.

A range of emotions churned around in his mind, giving him brief flares of sadness, indifference, and even hurt, but what he settled on was that fact that he deserved it. He was a detrimental factor to the team, so it was a given that he should be taken off it. In hindsight, Alfred wondered why he'd bothered to join again in the first place. Things were becoming unsteady even before the tryouts, and yet he still tried out? He was being given nothing less than what he expected. Thoughts darkening, coils of self-contempt developed and latched on in his mind, refusing to let go. How could he expect to be useful to anyone when he was this pathetic, weak person?

Alfred let out a derisive snort and sat down in front of the door to his first class, retrieving his iPhone from his pocket and putting on a playlist of less-than-joyful songs. The music made waiting for the day to start more bearable, and soon enough, people were standing about, chatting in their little circles. Many stares and fingers were directed at him, but Alfred paid them no heed, choosing to ignore the outside world for as long as he was allowed.

Francis arrived earlier than usual, walking up to him with a concered frown in place. Taking out his earbuds, he heard Francis say a quick greeting, "Salut, Alfred. Are you all right?"

Offering up a grin, he nodded. "Yup! Why wouldn't I be?"

His voice lowered to a whisper. "The football game…" Trailing off, he pursed his lips in a frown.

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, "Yeah, I wasn't up on my game Friday. Probably just lost the knack for it, really. Well, c'est la vie. That's life."

By the skeptical look on his face, Alfred knew that Francis didn't buy it. For once, though, the Frenchman didn't pursue the subject further. They talked about Francis' weekend for the most part, which apparently consisted of assisting his mother with the cooking for a dinner party and spending time with Kiku. He gave little input as to his own weekend, since there wasn't much to say about it, except that he'd talked to Arthur.

When Kiku arrived, the two conversed over manga while Alfred let his mind wander. It wasn't long until the teacher arrived and they took their seats. Cradling his head in his arms, Alfred shut his eyes, not caring if the teacher reprimanded him for sleeping in class. It was better than being awake to let his mind torture him. But even in sleep, the chance for peace was only fifty-fifty.

* * *

The morning passed by without incident until lunchtime. Alfred was sitting in one of the halls near the cafeteria, once more blocking out the world with music. Not in the mood for eating or conversing, he stayed out here to avoid his friends. It was peaceful for all of ten minutes.

And then his former teammates showed up.

The guy that had tried to pick a fight with him the day before the game stood before Alfred, the same two lackeys with him. Somewhere within his memory, he was finally able to scrounge up a name: Drystan. Funny, how he could be around the same people for four years and barely be able to remember their names. Without warning, a hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt and forced him up, making him come face to face with a disdainful sneer and narrowed eyes.

"You fucking bastard," he barked, tone dripping with venom, "you lost us the fucking game! Thanks to that, the scouts have withdrawn their decisions. Because of _your_ shitty-ass playing!"

Suddenly, a fist came in contact with his stomach, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs. The hand left his shirt, and Alfred collapsed to one knee, keeling over with one hand clutching his stomach. He looked up at his assailant with apathy, which only seemed to enrage him more.

"Oi, you two. Hold him."

The lackeys did as they were told and he was dragged up, arms locked in place and his body vulnerable. Another fist slammed into his gut, followed by another, and another, and another. The beating continued on incessantly, and all the while derogatory, taunting words were shouted at him, but Alfred simply blocked them out, since it was nothing compared to the insults that man used against him on a constant basis.

There was a pause in the beating, and then a fist collided with his nose, the nosepiece of his glasses cracking and the bone giving way under the powerful fist with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed out from his nose in rivulets, trailing down to smear on his lips and collect at his chin, where it then traced down his neck and over his Adam's apple, soaking into the white material of his shirt.

Another fist connected with his cheekbone, and heat blossomed in his cheek, which was soon coupled with pain. A _crack!_ was heard as the blow damaged the lens of his glasses. He flinched, eye shutting for a moment so the small shards wouldn't get in his eye. Alfred felt the burning of tears glazing over his already-blurred sight, but he refused to let them fall.**  
**

"Good-for-nothing cunt." Drystan spat scornfully, signaling for his lackeys to step back. Without their arms to hold him up, Alfred collapsed to the floor, pain curling in his stomach and pulsing from his broken, bleeding nose.

"Have fun with your little queer friends." He laughed, and they turned around, about to walk off.

Alfred's head snapped up, eyes alight with anger, and he growled out dangerously, "What did you say?"

Drystan turned back around, raising a brow. Then, a mocking smirk curled up on the guy's lips, and he snorted in amusement, "You heard me. Go and play with your faggot friends, _faggot._" The three laughed. "Glad we won't have to see your pansy face at practice anymore."

Adrenaline rushing through his veins and rage curling his hands into fists, he stood up. With one quick movement, Alfred neared Drystan and his upraised fist slammed into his nose. The jock stumbled back, holding his nose and looking at Alfred with offense.

Fury twisted his lips into a snarl and he retaliated, swinging a punch directly toward his eye. The impact shattered the whole lens and pain flared up like a raging monsoon, his vision going black for a few seconds. Disoriented with ears ringing at a deafening pitch, he fell back to the floor.

Drystan looked at his hand with anger, blood dripping from the lacerated knuckles. Giving Alfred one last kick to the stomach, he turned away and headed toward the cafeteria.

"See you later, faggot!"

Alfred clenched his teeth together and ripped off the mangled glasses, letting them fall to the floor as he squinted his eyes in pain and clutched at his bleeding nose. Dragging himself to sit against the wall, he took deep breaths in and out, trying to lessen the pain. His shirt was effectively ruined, the blood from his nose having soaked the neck of it to a deep red color. How long was it until lunch ended? Damn, he didn't know. Just as he didn't know how he was going to clean up this mess.

His nose was definitely broken, or at least fractured. A persistent ache pulsated through the wounded parts of his face. Already, he could feel a bruise forming on his cheek, and his eyes were swelling up painfully. _Damn, this day has just gotten worse and worse._

Stumbling into an upright position, he collected his pack and glasses with the hand that wasn't clutching at his nose. He was about to head off to grab his bike and skip the rest of the day when a familiar voice shouted from across the corridor.

"Hey, Alfred!"

Turning, he saw none other than Gilbert Beilschmidt waving at him with a grin on his face, accompanied by Ivan Braginsky, a Russian in the same year as Alfred. Gilbert had graduated the year before, but sometimes came around to harass Ludwig (his little brother), or to hang out with friends. It wasn't unusual to see these two in each other's company, as it seemed that they were together, or so Francis had told Alfred last year. He and the German weren't the closest, but they'd had their laughs together, especially when discussing whatever prank Gilbert had been planning.

The grin fell and gave way for an alarmed frown when he caught sight of Alfred's state, face bloody and bruised. Rushing up to him, he exclaimed, "_Scheiße_, you look awful! What happened?"

Debating whether or not to tell the truth, Alfred quickly realized that there was no room for lying in this situation. What could he say, having been found beaten up like this at school? "Oh, I tripped?" Yeah, right.

Reluctantly, he spoke the truth. "Bastards from the football team picking a fight, is all." Vague, but true.

"Aren't you on the football team?" he asked in confusion.

Alfred shrugged a shoulder in response. "Not anymore."

Pursing his lips, Gilbert shook his head and bit out, "Those arschlöcher!" Looking over at Ivan, he asked, "Ivan, would you be okay with skipping for the rest of the day?"

Smiling with curiosity in his eyes, the Russian nodded, "Da. Where are we going?"

"My house," he turned back to Alfred. "Mutti's a nurse, she can help you out." When he saw the skeptical look on Alfred's face, he added, "Unless you want to go to the nurse's office and explain this to them?"

He had a point. But there was a chance that a nurse would catch on to his other injuries. If that happened, he'd be in deep shit. Still, he couldn't possibly go back home with his sight as distorted as it was without glasses and with his eyes swelling. Needing no further consideration, he agreed. "Okay, I'll go. But why does he have to go to?" he gestured toward Ivan, who was wearing that eerie smile again.

Gilbert cackled, "In case you end up collapsing and need someone to carry you." Despite his laughter, Alfred could tell that his words were dead serious.

The three left campus, Alfred riding along in Gilbert's car while Ivan followed him with his bike in the back of his truck. Ten minutes passed with the blaring of some German rock music, and then they were pulling up the driveway of Gilbert's house.

Paying little attention to the details of the house, Alfred slipped out of the passenger seat when the car came to a full stop and steadied himself, walking around to meet Gilbert and Ivan. Together, they entered the house, and Gilbert called out in a loud voice.

"Mutti, ich bin zu Hause!"

"Oh, willkommen zu Hause, Gilbert!" she called back, coming down the stairs.

Gilbert's mother was fairly young, or so he thought; he couldn't be sure with his vision as blurry as it was. Her hair was a pale chestnut color, and her skin seemed almost as fair as Gilbert's, and her eyes were a light blue color. Dressed in black slacks and a flowery blouse, she looked ready to go out to a fancy lunch.

When she stopped before the three, her expression turned to one of surprise, then of concern as she hurried up to look at Alfred. Her eyes roamed his face and body, inspecting thoroughly in the way that nurses and doctors did. "Oh, sweety, what happened to you?" she asked in that accent that both brothers had.

Opening his mouth to respond, he found that Gilbert was answering for him. "Some guys beat him up at school. Can you fix him up?"

"Yes, I can, but it'd be better to go to the hospital." Addressing Alfred, she said, "They'll have more effective treatments."

Quickly, Alfred rushed to oppose. "I don't want to go to the hospital," he said adamantly.**  
**

Looking at him uncertainly, Gilbert's mother sighed. "It goes against my practice to not send you to the hospital, but if you're that determined…" she smiled, "I'll do what I can."

"Danke, Mutti!" Gilbert grinned.

"Now, what is your name?" she asked.

"Alfred Jones," was his short response.

Putting out her hand, she said, "I'm Anna. It's a pleasure to meet you, Alfred," when he took her hand, she shook it and continued with a chuckle, "though I would've preferred under better circumstances."

Forcing a smile, Alfred chuckled with her. She led him to the living room, and the trio sat down while she brought her equipment from upstairs.

Gilbert and Ivan sat on a loveseat together, leaving Alfred with the couch to himself. The bleeding was finally starting to slow to a trickle, and for that he was grateful. Now, if only he could _see_…

"So, why aren't you on the team anymore?" The question from Gilbert put Alfred's focus on the pair sitting together.

He shrugged, "Haven't done so hot in the last few games. And my GPA's low." Another true response. He was on a roll today.

Nodding, Gilbert changed the subject, darting from topic to topic. All the while, Alfred gave only the necessary comments, and even Ivan spoke more than him. It was still bizarre to see the two so close, holding hands and sitting flush against one another. Ivan and Gilbert had had a sort of strange relationship through most of high school, seemingly hating each other but often seen together. It'd been a surprise when they got together near the end of last year, and apparently they were still going on strong…

Maybe_ too_ strong.

During their conversing, Ivan had pulled Gilbert into his lap and started feathering kisses along his neck, arms wrapped around his waist. Abruptly, Gilbert's words were cut off by a soft moan following a rather hard kiss against his neck. Alfred observed with a brow raised as Gilbert turned in the Russian's lap to face him, berating him for his teasing. Ivan responded with a smile and pulled the German down into a kiss. It started out chaste, but got deeper as they continued, rather disturbing licking and slurping and moaning sounds coming from the two.

Face flushing red, he halted the two when he said, "Um, guys, still here."

Gilbert turned around with a sheepish grin, cackling out an apology, "Sorry." Looking over his shoulder, the German said, "Not in front of company."

"All right." Ivan conceded, his tone rather sulky.

Gilbert's mother came back down the stairs not a moment later, a large first-aid kit in hand. After going into what appeared to be the kitchen and coming back with a cloth and an icepack, she sat down beside Alfred. Opening the kit, she revealed a plethora of gauze rolls and several bottles of antiseptics, among other things. "Okay, take your hand away from your nose and let's get you cleaned up first."

She gently wiped clean the blood trailing from his nose to his neck with an alcohol wipe and then started on dabbing at the small cuts on his cheek and above his eye. The process was much easier to bear than the care he'd done for himself only five days ago. Soon, he had ointment smeared on his bruises and small gauze strips over the cuts. After giving him a pain reliever and instructing him to hold the ice pack over his nose and eyes, she put the kit back and then left the house to run errands.

With Gilbert's encouragement, Alfred imposed on the couple and relaxed for a few hours in their living room, listening to the T.V. The painkillers were kicking in and helping with his not only his face, but the rest of his body as well, and the cold felt nice against his swollen eyes and nose.

Thinking back to the beating, he wondered if this was what it would be like from now on. Getting beaten both at home and at school, facing the scorn and malice from both that man and his schoolmates. Alfred didn't know if he'd be able to withstand such a constant onslaught. Ever since school started, it'd been an escape from home, an escape from the pain and the hate and everything else that poisoned it. But now it'd even spread to his one place of solace. It was almost laughable, how the hatred and hurt seemed to follow him wherever he went.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?"

"What?" Alfred edged the icepack over so he could look at Gilbert through one blurry eye. He was holding a cell phone away from his mouth, looking at him questioningly. "Uh, sure."

"He said yes, Mutti," the German spoke into the phone, "At Feli's? Ja, okay, bye." He set the phone down on the glass coffee table. "Mutti will be home in a few minutes. Ludwig's having dinner at Feli's."

When Gilbert's mother arrived, she made a rather simple meat and vegetable stew, but it was the most delicious thing he'd had ever since his mother left. It made him realize just how little he'd been eating, since he had to keep himself from gulping the whole bowl down. But his mother didn't mind; with a smile and a chuckle, she only said that she was glad he liked it, and he was able to fill himself with three servings of the mouth-watering stew.

The sun had already set by the time they he left Gilbert's house. Ivan had offered to give him a ride home, and he accepted graciously, although to say that the ride home was comfortable would have been a lie. Ivan and Alfred weren't exactly friends, but their differences were set aside for the time being. Whether it was because of Gilbert or because Ivan felt sorry for him, he didn't know.

Dropping him off and unloading his bike, Ivan drove off after bidding him goodnight.

Without daylight, his movements were clumsy as he locked up his bike and made his way through the front door. Gilbert's mother had given him an ice pack to take home as well as the bottle of pain relievers from earlier, and he was set on collapsing on his bed and letting the cold sooth the swelling. However, his plans were ruined when he opened the door to his bedroom and found that man sitting on his bed, beer bottle in hand, and angry, bloodshot eyes staring at the door.

"Where the fuck have you been?" He snarled, standing up. "Causing more trouble, eh! Worthless brat…" his mumbles became incoherent for a moment, and then, "…shouldn't have to take care of you when it's your Goddamn fault that they left! She didn't want to take care of you, so I'm stuck with your shitty ass!"

Alfred could only stand there in the doorway as the man stomped toward him. He shoved past violently, causing Alfred to stumble to the side, his head colliding painfully with the doorframe. It ached where the impact occurred, adding to the many bruises along his body.

A door slammed behind him as presumably the man went to his room. Alfred shut the door and set down his pack, throwing his mangled glasses in the trash and taking out the spare he kept in the drawer of his computer desk. Hopefully these wouldn't end up broken as well.

He placed them on the nightstand, since his eyes were too swollen to wear them right now, and changed into his sleep clothes, then turned the light off and eased down on his bed. With the ice pack covering his eyes, Alfred took out his phone and dialed the number of the only person that could ease the aching he felt.

Putting it to his ear, he heard it ring, and ring, and ring. For the first time since Arthur moved to England, he didn't answer the phone.

* * *

**I feel awful for putting in such offensive terms. But I'm pretty sure I put them in for a reason, so they're not just extraneous insults to pack more needless hurt. (._.) And I tried to add a bit of comic relief here, though I'm not entirely sure if it worked...**

**Also, I really didn't want to give Mister Evil Jock a name, or Gilbert's mother, but for the former, I really didn't want to keep saying "the guy," so... *trails off* for the latter, there were introductions to be had!**

**Translation guide ahead *sigh*: (swear words omitted)**

**Salut - (Sa-loo) - Hi (informal)  
C'est la vie - (Say la vi) - That's life; Such is life; It is what it is (French expression)  
Ich bin zu Hause - (Eekh bin tsoo hau-zeh) - I'm home  
Willkommen zu Hause - ( ) - Welcome home  
Danke - ( ) - Thank you  
**

**Feel free to correct me on these... I haven't learned German... yet!**

**Thoughts and opinions, anyone?**

**Reviews are love. They are, they are.**

**Thank you for reading! *sets out plate of caramel fudge squares***


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